


Rogues Gallery

by robocryptid



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Canon-Typical Violence, Cyberninja Hanzo Shimada, F/F, Love Triangles, M/M, Multi, Mystery Man Jesse McCree, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, POV Alternating, Rating May Change, Secret Identity, Sentai Genji Shimada, sort of because... superhero tropes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:47:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29521071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robocryptid/pseuds/robocryptid
Summary: Hanzo visits the vigilante-infested city of Tropton to seal a business deal and handle a personal matter. If all goes according to plan, it should take a week at most.His first mistake was thinking,If all goes according to plan.Naturally, it doesn't.
Relationships: Jean-Baptiste Augustin/Lúcio Correia dos Santos/Genji Shimada, Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada, Sombra | Olivia Colomar/Widowmaker | Amélie Lacroix
Comments: 8
Kudos: 65





	Rogues Gallery

**Author's Note:**

> I've been trying to write this superhero AU since _2019_ , y'all. Thanks to mataglap's support and encouragement, I can officially start it! 
> 
> If some of this looks familiar, it is loosely based on a series of drabbles I wrote on Tumblr way back in 2018. Some parts may be discarded, while others may be considered spoilers for later McHanzo parts of this fic. Part 3 is rated explicit, though this fic likely won't be. (If it is, I'll post those other scenes as related fics in a series, not in this main fic.)  
> [Part 1](https://robo-cryptid.tumblr.com/post/177053453697/36-we-can-never-be-together-kiss-for-mchanzo)  
> [Part 2](https://robo-cryptid.tumblr.com/post/177437757492/11-just-fuck-me-up)  
> [Part 3](https://robo-cryptid.tumblr.com/post/178586018552/53-mchanzo-please)

“Mr. Shimada.” Hanzo’s host towered when he rose to his feet, as imposing — and chiseled — as a statue. His polite bow felt almost mocking, coming from the height that it did, but the handshake that followed was vigorous and sincere.

“Mr. Ogundimu.”

“Akande, if you would.” He smiled when he spoke, although there was something reserved about it. 

“Of course. Call me Hanzo.” It was refreshing, in some ways, to set aside his family name, although that name was the only thing that had gotten him this far. 

“Shall we sit? How was your flight?” 

“Very comfortable, thank you.” 

“And your family are doing well?” Akande persisted in this small talk. It was unfamiliar for what was ostensibly a business meeting, but Hanzo was adaptable. 

Besides, the view was spectacular. The private dining room was small and otherwise discreet, but its sole window was a massive thing that looked out over Tropton. As evening set in, the whole city sparkled, drastically transformed from the filthy place on the ground. 

Hanzo had thought this part might be painful. He was not good at connecting with others, and he understood Akande’s approach to business to be more personal than his own, but it was not unpleasant. Akande was polite, and he was better-looking than even on the video calls they had shared. If his warmth seemed somewhat calculated, that was to be expected; it was business, after all.

Akande’s interest in an arrangement with the Shimada was convenient. It gave Hanzo the excuse he needed to come here, his private travel expenses paid, without the family looking too closely at the rest of his activities. If he was lucky, he would conclude both items of business by the end of the week. In the interim, he could not complain about dinner with a man whose partnership might give the Shimada a real foothold in the West, and who could afford the private jet that brought Hanzo here. The  _ chiseled  _ thing was an added bonus. 

“Tomorrow, of course, you will meet some of my staff. I am sorry it won’t be sooner, but I appreciate your flexibility.”

“Of course,” Hanzo murmured into his glass, eager to hide his attempts to determine the exact width of Akande’s shoulders. “I am eager to see how you run your organization.” 

Akande’s smile had an edge to it this time, nearly a smirk, but in this place, it would be unwise to abandon the pretense that this was anything more than a business discussion. At its heart, it was exactly that, but the Shimada were in the business of moving illegal weapons. “In the meantime, I have had my assistant put together a file for you. Recommended dining, sightseeing, and the like.” The sardonic twist to his mouth remained, until Hanzo had to wonder what poor soul this man had roped into secretarial work. Given what he knew of Akande’s shadier operations, it was unlikely to be the skill set they had been hired for. From a sleek briefcase, Akande produced a shiny black folder. “You’ll find contact information for a driver there. Consider him at your disposal. My personal number is attached as well, if you find yourself in need of anything further.” Something in his tone suggested that Hanzo was welcome to use the personal number for reasons beyond simple business. There was no leer, nothing too forward, but the invitation seemed clear. 

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Hanzo said, managing to drum up some sincere gratitude, if only for the sake of the private jet and continued opportunities to eyeball the biceps straining Akande’s suit jacket. 

Inviting or not, Akande was a busy man. Dinner concluded swiftly and with minimal further conversation, although the disappointment his host expressed was genuine, if the way his eyes lingered on Hanzo’s mouth was any indication. Hanzo’s restless nature made it difficult to find fault with another workaholic. 

The only true letdown was the abrupt end to the brief, flattering attention from someone he for once might consider a peer. Sycophants were more his brother’s preference — or they were long ago, when Genji had still been around. Hanzo banished the thought of his brother, refusing to allow his mood to sour. 

The city’s stink was mood-killer enough. There were many cities in the world with that particular blend of sewage and air pollution, but this was the worst he had encountered. It hit him with the cold wind when he stepped outside to find the car already waiting.

The vehicle made some attempt at subtlety with its clean, black exterior, but it could not be anything but what it was: a luxurious sedan as expensive as a small house. Hanzo had been greeted by other prospective partners with limousines and sports cars alike, both of which were missteps. He would rather  _ drive  _ the sports car, and the limousine was far too much for a single rider. This suggested a taste for luxury, but not a need to be flamboyant about it, or perhaps it suggested that Akande’s team had done their research on him before now. 

At first glance, this might be any other large sedan on the road. He enjoyed the discretion. In Hanamura, even the most subtle car would eventually be flagged as a Shimada vehicle, and it would draw attention and avoidance alike. Here, he could be anyone. There was something seductive about the idea.

The folder Akande had given him provided his only entertainment on the ride. It was a polite gesture, but he wasn’t interested in playing tourist. He might use the cards for both Akande and the driver, but he had every intention of letting the folder collect dust once he returned to his rental. 

He was jarred from his boredom by the bleating of horns and the realization that the car had come to a full stop. “Apologies, sir,” the driver said over the intercom. “There will be a delay.”

“What sort of delay?” Now that he was paying attention, he could hear shouting too, a din outside that even the vehicle’s powerful sound dampening could not diminish entirely. “Can you remove the partition, Mr. Holston?” The dark screen slid silently down. Beyond the windshield and past several rows of cars, a crowd stood in the street. “What are they doing?”

“Protesting.” The omnic’s mechanical affect made it hard to say for sure, but he sounded annoyed by the inconvenience. 

“Protesting what?”

“The new anti-vigilantism laws.”

“Ah.” These were hardly unique. Every place had its restrictions. Hanamura’s were necessarily more lax than others — Hanzo’s family paid good money to hamstring any legislation that would interfere with their operations — but he was familiar enough with the trends elsewhere. “What do you think of them?”

The omnic’s eyes flashed in the rearview mirror. “I’m not paid to have opinions, sir.”

Hanzo snorted, although he should not have been surprised. “An estimation, then: how long do you think we will be stopped?”

“The last one went on for hours, but I’m sure the police will be here soon to round them up.” 

“So it will be faster for me to walk.”

“I don’t recommend that, sir. Sir? Please don’t—” The lights on his faceplate seemed ruffled, almost, as Hanzo opened the door. “Please, what will I tell Mr. Ogundimu?”

“Tell him I needed the fresh air,” he said dryly.

Inside the car, the noise had been muted. Outside, it was a cacophony, oppressive in its volume. Car horns blared from all directions, competing for attention with the shouts and rhythmic chanting of hundreds of people and omnics. Hanzo had no desire to learn what they were protesting while here on the street, but the signs made it clear enough: 

_ Stop watching us.  _

_ Fuck your curfews!  _

_ Registration = Repression.  _

It might not be the first city to craft draconian laws in service to fighting vigilantism, but it was worth investigating whether these might get in the way of his own goals, especially if surveillance was going to be a problem. He was not going to do that investigating here, though.

He ducked around the parked cars and beat a quick retreat to the sidewalk to orient himself. Tropton was laid out on a grid system, easy enough to navigate if he could get his bearings, and easier still with his phone to aid him. He backtracked to move another block over, doing his best to work around the gathered crowd. They could take over a whole city block, maybe a few intersections, but surely no more than that.

His leather shoes pinched, designed as they were to impress business partners rather than to hold up to long strolls through an unfamiliar city. It was an otherwise pleasant enough walk, if also occasionally smelly, as Hanzo’s navigation system sent him over sewage grates and down side streets lined with dumpsters. 

It was along one of these side streets that he heard the footfalls. Even accounting for the echo of his own, there were too many for him to be alone. The back of his neck prickled.

“Nice shoes,” said someone behind him. There was the click of a gun’s safety flicking off. “Keep calm, and this’ll go smoothly.” When Hanzo stopped walking, the voice said, “There you go. Where’s your wallet, man?”

Hanzo considered playing dumb, pretending he did not know the language, but the prickling at his neck had become a throbbing hum of blood through his body. He made a show of moving slowly, hands visible as if in surrender. He reached into the front of his jacket to pluck the pocket square free. He had no intention of going for his wallet.

“You have chosen the wrong prey.” He lunged to the side. A bullet screeched against metal, not far from where he’d stood. In the shadow of the dumpster he’d chosen for cover, he knotted the pocket square behind his head, a makeshift mask should this encounter leave any survivors.

A quick peek confirmed his suspicion: there were two of them, both armed with handguns. One bullet shot. Eleven, at most, left in their combined clips.  _ Ten, maybe,  _ he corrected as another one blew a chunk in the brick well to the side of him. They were bad shots, at least. 

He ducked back behind the dumpster, debating whether to summon the dragons that lived inside him or simply take them out by hand. He was still formulating his plan when another voice spoke: “Two on one? Now, that’s not fair.”

Debris crunched underfoot as one of Hanzo’s assailants turned. “You? Oh, shit.”

“Better put that down before somebody gets hurt,” said the new voice, low and amused. If Hanzo had the wherewithal to do more than plot his way out of this mess, he might have even thought it was sort of sexy. Even now, it settled warm and pleasant inside him, which was not a distraction he cared to entertain while being robbed at gunpoint. 

Someone moved, feet scuffling, then there was the distinctive crunch of a nose shattering. He swung out of his cover to find one of the gunmen distracted, weapon wavering between Hanzo and the newcomer, who wore one of the most ridiculous outfits he had ever seen. The second erstwhile robber sprawled on the ground, clutching a hand over his bloody face. 

Deeming him the easier target, the one still standing wheeled on Hanzo, who snatched his wrist and twisted until the gun fell clattering to the cracked pavement. The man dropped to his knees, whimpering as Hanzo increased the pressure on his arm. The ridiculous stranger let out a quiet whistle. “Nice moves. Guess you didn’t need my help, after all,” he said. “Now you two,” he chided, sounding for all the world like he was smiling behind all the cloth obscuring his face. “What’ve we learned?”

“Fuck you,” the robber with the broken nose said valiantly. 

The vigilante kicked his gun away from his grasping hand with a sigh. “Wanna try that again?”

Through bloody teeth, the man on the ground snarled. “Go to he—” He cut off with a sad whimper, silenced by the gun thumped against his temple. 

“How ’bout you?” The vigilante nudged the other man with the toe of one incongruous boot. He was dressed like an absolute lunatic, a hundred plus years out of fashion from hat to ankle, with boots rather than dress shoes to complete the look. 

“I’m— I’m sorry, sir,” the robber sobbed, cringing away from them both, which only made him wince as his shoulder wrenched further. “I won’t do it again.” 

“See how easy that is?” The vigilante chuckled. “Maybe the nice gentleman will even let you go.” Hanzo wouldn’t go that far, but he did take the cue to loosen his grip. “You alright?”

Hanzo glanced up to find the vigilante addressing him. The dragons within slithered in response to his gaze. They had always appreciated competence and a measured stare, unburdened as they were by human concerns like silly headwear and wondering if someone was wearing  _ spats. _

“Alright enough. Thank you.” He gave a careful nod, doing his best to ignore the dragons’ unfortunate enthusiasm. He could not quite suppress his desire to see the stranger’s eyes, hidden beneath the shadow of his hat. He could feel them like a weight on his skin nonetheless, cataloguing details in a manner that made him grateful he’d covered his face.

“Just doin’ my job,” the vigilante said, a beat too late. “You made it pretty easy, though, didn’t you?” The dragons preened at the praise, as though they were idiot animals desperate for petting and not regal, ancient spirits. He wondered if that was the stranger’s ability; perhaps he could charm spirits, and that made Hanzo’s reaction entirely dependent on the supernatural and not some latent attraction to cartoon gangsters of the early twentieth century.

Before he could form an answer, the vigilante’s head turned toward the distant sound of police sirens. “You wanna talk to the cops?” Hanzo shook his head no, and he withheld his thoughts that they were more likely heading toward the protest. “Yeah, me neither. I’ll leave these two wrapped up nice in a bow for ’em. You best get a move on. Maybe stick to the main streets?” The vigilante tipped his hat.  _ Like a cowboy,  _ Hanzo thought. It was a silly thought, one for which he blamed the dragons once more. 

Then Hanzo left as quickly as he could move and still maintain any semblance of a casual walk. He spent the next several blocks replaying the details in his mind, committing the vigilante’s outfit to memory. It was an easy task, considering. 

The apartment he had rented sat in a high-rise building surrounded by half a dozen others. Even here, the stench of the city lingered, as did the sense that there might be muggers — or unsexily dressed vigilantes with sexy voices and possible dragon spirit-manipulating abilities — lingering in the side streets, but the landscaping at the edges of the sidewalks was better maintained. He suspected the uneasy pall that lingered here was one he would find anywhere else in Tropton; he had felt it since he disembarked from the private jet, clinging like a film. He had thought before that it might be anticipation of all he had come to accomplish, but after his eventful first day, he was willing to consider it one of the town’s features.

The rental came appointed with the sort of furniture that was simultaneously expensive and bland. Gray on gray on white on more gray, some glass here and there. It was all very contemporary, and very cold. Its sterile appearance made it easier to determine if anyone had intruded, though. 

A brief sweep confirmed that everything in the apartment was exactly as he had left it. The devices he had set to monitor the door and windows remained undisturbed. His suits hung as carefully as when he had left, his other clothing folded tidily into drawers. His laptop was still in its case. The other case, the one he had tucked behind the garment bags, was intact, no signs of tampering either inside or out. Everything was as secure as it was possible to be. 

With the day’s business out of the way, it was time for research. The legal crackdowns were easy enough to follow; infringements on citizens’ privacy appeared to be the primary complaint. Nothing new, although they did seem to be particularly burdensome here, with everything from ability registration programs to mandatory curfews on the table. Hanzo didn’t intend to stay long enough to find these more than a minor hindrance, though it did mean he would have to keep a closer eye out for security drones on his subsequent outings. 

The second half was more refresher than new research: studying up on the known vigilantes in the area. Overwatch was infamous well beyond its local borders, granted some measure of grace by the authorities due to their status as do-gooders. The man who had helped him tonight wasn’t pictured among them. Without a name and with only unhelpful search terms like  _ guy in weird suit  _ and  _ 1900s gangster vigilante _ , Hanzo found little traction. 

There was, however, another that caught and maintained Hanzo’s attention, despite that there was no  _ new  _ information about him. He was a fan favorite, it seemed, with unauthorized merchandise ranging from posters to action figures to — Hanzo snorted — body pillows, which showed up to clog his search results as always. News cameras rarely caught the vigilante for long, and they almost never recorded him speaking. Hanzo didn’t need to hear his voice anyway. The showy costume, the reference it drew from, the acrobatics displayed in the rare, often poorly lit phone footage — all these things spoke for him. Most damningly, exactly one month ago, three-and-a-half weeks before Hanzo had set into motion his meeting with Akande, the vigilante had left something behind at a crime scene. It was a single three-pointed shuriken, its edges lined in neon green hardlight, a design favored by one specific member of one specific family. 

It was Genji. It had to be.

* * *

Lúcio ripped the last flier from the glass door leading into his building, crumpling the shiny paper in a frustrated fist. Last night’s demonstration went better than it could’ve. They had the bail money for the people who got arrested, and nobody got hurt. It didn’t change any of the legislators’ talks today, though. 

“How did your thing go?” The voice came from  _ way  _ too close behind him, and he turned with a start. His neighbor stood so near that Lúcio had to crane his neck to look him in the eye. 

“My  _ thing  _ went alright, I guess. Bunch of us are getting together tomorrow to plan the next one.” Lúcio moved as he spoke. It had been a long day already, and there was still work to do. 

“Yeah, that’s cool.” Genji said it like he hadn’t heard a word. “You seem busy, but I was thinking, would you maybe want to grab some—”

“I  _ am  _ busy, man. For uh, the foreseeable future. Working, organizing, trying to get my music together. Got a lot of plates spinning. You know how it is.”

“Sure, yeah, that’s… cool,” he finished lamely. 

Lúcio didn’t wince, but maybe inside, he kind of wanted to. The elevator dinged and he rushed off, but there was no escaping yet. Genji lived right next door. “See you around, alright?”

Inside his apartment, he breathed a sigh of relief. It hadn’t been as awkward as it could’ve been, but he always felt a little bad. Genji was unbe _liev_ ably hot, and he was a nice enough dude, but Lúcio  _ was  _ busy. He had way too much going on to waste his time. In the first couple months, he had tried humoring Genji. Invited him to some meetings and all that, just to see if he could be persuaded to give a single shit about something. 

Genji did not, in fact, give a single shit about anything. Lúcio didn’t even know what he did all day. Something about him gave off a real trust fund weirdo vibe.

He couldn’t just sleep with him and move on, either, because he lived  _ right there.  _ So Lúcio said no, Genji gave him that cute, resigned smile, Lúcio might catch him out in the hall later with whatever flavor of the week, and then they were good for up to a month before Genji asked him out again. It was kind of their thing, if they could be described as having  _ a thing _ at all.

“Should I just tell him I got my eye on someone else?” he asked wryly. The autographed poster of Sentai did not reply.

There was time for some microwaved leftovers and a quick nap before he was up again for his on-call shift. A lot of nights, being on call was an excuse to work on his music. This one looked to be heading that way, and he got in a few necessary changes to his latest composition, but in the final half hour, the call came through. He got to his feet, stretched, and slung his duffel over his shoulder.

By the time he arrived on scene, he was fully outfitted, helmet and all. It looked like an easy job. Probably could’ve been handled by the police if omnics didn’t have such terrifying good aim. He ducked the first spray of bullets then sped over the sidewalk. A burst from his sonic amplifier sent two of them careening into the brick wall. When they could aim again, he was already working a shield, spinning the sound of gunfire into a barrier between himself and the bullets. 

Even omnics had to reload. He could wait until they did, then cut right and— 

A bright figure dropped on top of one of them with a gleeful shout, sending its gun clattering away. Several shuriken sank into the chestplate and arm of another, metal sparking in the night. Lúcio grinned beneath his helmet. 

With the omnics’ attention firmly on Sentai, Lúcio sprang out from behind his shield and knocked one attacker away. Then he grabbed the next, grabbing for its gun until he realized this one was attached. “You mind?” he asked.

“Not at all!” Sentai declared in that voice that made him sound like a sportscaster, then cleanly severed the gun from the omnic’s arm.

They made quick work of the robbers. Now to tie them up and wait for the cops. This part always rubbed Lúcio the wrong way, working with the same authorities he protested in his off hours, but everybody had to make their bargains. 

Sentai relieved him of those kinds of thoughts, chatting with him while they worked. Lúcio was grateful for the helmet. Not that Sentai shouldn’t know he was smiling, just that it was kind of a lot. 

“You shouldn’t have started without me!” Sentai said. 

“You shouldn’t have been so slow.” That got a laugh, low and a little rough. It didn’t quite get picked up by the tinny-sounding modulator. Maybe that was what he really sounded like without it. It was going to haunt Lúcio later, he already knew it. 

“I needed to make a dramatic entrance!” Sentai paused what he was doing to pose, arms flexed. Lúcio snorted.  _ Dork.  _ He was a complete and total dork, and Lúcio was smitten.

The first car to arrive wasn’t the police. It was a news van. Sentai gave a resigned tilt of his head.

“We can get outta here if you want,” Lúcio said quietly.

“It is part of the job.” Sentai shrugged, but there was a weight to it. There always was. If he wasn’t announcing something in that funny voice, something was wrong. Besides, Lúcio had worked with him enough times now to know that for all his showboating, he didn’t like talking to cameras. Shy, maybe. The contrast was weirdly endearing. 

“I’ll handle it. You watch the baddies here.”

Sentai nodded, and Lúcio liked to imagine he was smiling when he said, “Thank you.”

Later, Lúcio would blame the film crew for distracting them both. He turned and almost missed the flash of red. It shot past him with a metallic scrape, and it launched itself at Sentai. 

Sentai collapsed beneath her weight, caught in the world’s most eye-searing grappling match as he tried to fend off her flailing limbs. With a bitten curse, Lúcio rushed back. A quick blast from the amplifier dislodged her, then he turned her robotic screeching into another barrier to hold her firmly against the wall. She fought a lot harder than the other omnics, but in the end, the shield held. 

Squinting against the blinding flash of oncoming cop cars, Lúcio crouched next to Sentai, who was pushing himself back up on his hands. “You okay?”

“Thanks to you.”

Lúcio thought his grin might split his face in two, at least until he noticed the bleeding. The front of Sentai’s suit was torn across the chest, strips of pale skin showing where there weren’t deep red gashes. She’d cut straight through the protective layers like butter. “We should get you somewhere—” He paused. Mercy would be asleep at this time. They worked in shifts for a reason.

Sentai was staring down at himself, poking at the tattered suit. “I will be fine.”

“I don’t know, man, that doesn’t look good.”

It wasn’t the first time Lúcio wished he could see under the mask. The tilt of Sentai’s head didn’t give much away. “I know a guy!” he said brightly, back to that goofy announcer voice. “Don’t worry about me!” Even through two professionally crafted suits, his hand felt warm on Lúcio’s shoulder.

He shoved to his feet, and they both declined to give a statement to the press this time. Lúcio trailed behind Sentai. Maybe he’d be nagging, but he didn’t want to leave without trying either. “I’ve been working on something. It’s just a track. But if I engineer it just right, with my powers, it might help. If you feel like playing guinea pig.”

“Some other time, maybe.”

“If you’re injured, I really should—”

“I said not to worry.” Sentai sounded testy this time. His shoulders slumped immediately. “Sorry, kid. It has been a long day.”

“Sure. We’ve all been there. Not a problem.” Lúcio kept the flinch out of his voice the best he could. “Just promise me you’ll get it checked out?”

“I promise!” He gave Lúcio a funny salute, then he disappeared into the shadows in a way a man dressed like a lime green Power Ranger really shouldn’t have been able to.

Lúcio let out a long breath, a little stung and a lot indignant.  _ Kid.  _ Bypassing twenty-five meant he was a grown man, damn it. Maybe it was the height, or even the voice. Lots of people took him for younger than he was even when they could see his face.

He really doubted Sentai was  _ that  _ old, though. Sure, Sentai’s whole shtick was pretty ancient. Maybe that translated to some middle aged dude with a receding hairline. But Lúcio had met middle aged superheroes before. None of them had an ass like that.

* * *

Sombra’s keys clattered in the silver tray by the door. Instantly, the children came bounding to greet her. They knew better than to jump, but they butted their heavy bodies against her, nearly knocking her off balance as she wiggled her shoes off. 

“No time, babies,” she said with a perfunctory pat to each of the hyenas’ heads. Missy nipped at Elliott’s heels as they trailed her to the kitchen. The smell suggested Amélie was in there, trying her best.

Sombra found her staring intently at an instructional video, wine glass in one hand. There was a suspicious congealed mass in one of the saucepans, which she gave a tentative poke with her wooden spoon. Sombra did not ask what it was meant to be. It was the most anyone could ask of her. 

She took a moment to admire instead the line of Amélie’s lean body and the messy bun sagging beneath the weight of her dark hair. It must have been a good day. She was very fair today, skin nearly that of some other white woman who never saw the sun. On bad days, the blue tint to her skin deepened. It was nice to have a cheat sheet to read her girlfriend, whose otherwise cool, flat affect made her more difficult than most.

Amélie was a terrible cook, but Sombra could appreciate the curl of her long fingers and the flex of her slim wrist. She had pretty hands. Pretty everything.

She was beautiful, even on the worst days, and clever and insightful in ways nobody but Sombra gave her credit for. She was funny, which was hard to explain to other people, but which was nonetheless true. Most of all, she was loyal, ferociously so, which was a trait Sombra had learned to value above all others.

Sombra leaned against the high counter, drumming her fingers on the surface. One of the hyenas butted against the backs of her knees. “There’s something we need to talk about.”

“Certainly, chérie.” Amélie paused her video then inspected her saucepan. With a sigh and a frustrated clattering of cookware, she shoved it off the burner and turned the stove off. “While we discuss, think about what we should have delivered for dinner.” Sombra was  _ so  _ tactful. She pretended not to see the flush in Amélie’s cheeks. 

“Akande’s new buddy’s in town. You know, the one I had to play secretary for?”

“A tremendous misuse of your talents,” Amélie murmured. It was nice of her to try to soothe Sombra’s ego. She was a great girlfriend. Definitely worth being tactful for. 

“Yeah, well, all that trouble and he left it  _ in the car.”  _

One perfect eyebrow arched. “This includes the—”

“Yeah, the tracker. No clue if he suspected or what. Holston says it was probably an accident, but he was all flustered so… I don’t know. You know how he gets about manners and protocol. But still, ugh.”

“Ugh,” Amélie echoed. “And…?” she prompted, because she was clever, and she knew Sombra didn’t care that much about a tiny obstacle. She could track Shimada with her eyes closed. This was just a hiccup. 

_ “And  _ it got Nguyen’s panties in a twist again. Like some  _ guy  _ leaving a totally unimportant folder behind is a sign of Akande’s utter incompetence.” 

Amélie’s head tilted, careful. “If one were looking for excuses, perhaps.”

“That’s what I mean though. Max and Nguyen… They’re always finding some excuse, right? Arguing. Nitpicking.” Amélie’s eyes went sharp. She understood, of course, how much effort it took Sombra to share instead of hoard secrets. So she said nothing, and Sombra was grateful for the silence to collect herself — to decide how much to disclose, and whether knowing would put Amélie at greater risk than not-knowing. “They’re getting louder about it. How they don’t like the direction Talon’s going. I think they don’t like the direction  _ Akande  _ is going.”

Amélie’s fingers gave the slightest twitch around the stem of her wine glass. “You believe they will… mutiny?”

Sombra couldn’t help the laugh that escaped, but maybe she needed that one. “It’s not a pirate ship, babe. But I do think they’re going to want people to take sides.” She watched Amélie process, and the hyenas nudged gently against them both as if they had sensed the tension in the air, or maybe only as if they weren’t getting the attention they deserved. “I know you like Akande. And he pays better than they will. If we  _ have  _ to pick a side, I know what the better option is.”

“But…?”

_ “But  _ I don’t wanna be part of some internal dickwaving. It’s not what I signed up for. That kind of conflict… that’s dangerous. A stupid risk, not much reward.”

Amélie stared into her wine glass as if it alone held all the answers. Then she reached one of her pretty hands across the counter to tangle with Sombra’s. “So what do you want to do?”

Sombra shrugged, uncomfortable, but not enough to dislodge their clasped hands. “Stick with whoever pays the most? Survive. Adapt. Same as always.” She cleared her throat, fighting against the shaky feeling with all the reminders that Amélie was trustworthy, insofar as Sombra could trust anybody. “But I want you with me. If they try to make me pick a side, I’m picking  _ ours.” _

Amélie nodded, serious as the grave. “Our side, then, if it comes to it. Monter ou mourir.” 

Sombra snorted, relief shuddering through her. “You’re so cute when you’re trying to be edgy.” 

Soft lips brushed hers, tasting faintly of cabernet. Then Amélie gave the slightest of smiles. “You will get your chance, you know. To snoop again.” This was probably meant to cheer Sombra up. “Shimada has said he will attend Friday’s gala.”

That  _ did  _ perk her up, but not so much because she’d get to plant a bug on some stuffy old businessman. It was a different opportunity that made her smile back: “So I need a new dress, huh?”

**Author's Note:**

> "Monter ou mourir" is a far-too-literal translation of "ride or die." Widowmaker absolutely says it with a straight face.


End file.
